Dawson Filter as He Relates to Whiteboards

Dawson Filter and the Felix Sports had been staring into each other’s respective eyes for four minutes when this sentence takes place. Dawson had posed a question, but the time engineer neglected to hear him; and so they stood in silence, save for the faint hum of a nearby milkman, a breeze, and an assortment of other variables I can’t be expected to account for.

“Shall we do introductions, then?” Felix suggested, feeling that introductions should be done.

“Yes.” Dawson affirmed, “I’m Dawson Filter, and these are my quest mates, who also have names.” He motioned to his left and right to bring attention to the people there.

“I am Babe Listowel, rocker and 1782 incarnate. I enjoy croquet and long walks on the beach.” Said the being on Dawson’s left.

“And I am Twelve-Anne Stradivari.” Said an honest person.

Felix looked away from the others to be able to look more fantastic when he turned his head to face them directly and say: “I am Felix Sports.” He found that it was nearly impossible for a man with his number of heads to face over one (or fewer than zero) people directly, but the effect was impressive for at least Dawon. Not even effects can last, however, and before long, other things were happening.

“The reason we came here, Mr. Sports,” Twelve Anne’s sentence started with, “is that there is one in our group, named Sylvester Denny, who is in the Texan district of Manhattan in 2016, thirteen minutes before the city explodes. As you built the time machine in which we gallivant, (which I strongly suggest to my quest mates we stop calling ‘The Tumour‘, for reasons of class) we were wondering if you could please tell us the rules of time travel; like is it possible to stop the city from exploding when we apparently didn’t.”

“Ah, yes,” Felix said, in the way great men tend to, “now that is a concern worth having. Yes, you can change things as you like. Physics aren’t nearly as persnickety as they’re often portrayed in fiction. Time doesn’t move just two ways, history as a unit progresses just as easily as you progress through history. For every second that passses from your perspective, a ‘second’ also passes in time’s other plane, provided it has just two.” Felix pulled a whiteboard from his pocket, and began to draw for the Quest Committee.

“When you travel through time, you only change your position on the axis we’re all aware of, staying in the same spot on the special one, so you enter a new history. Were you to kill your father in the past, you wouldn’t cease to exist, because you didn’t come from that history. You wouldn’t be born in that history, so there would be no one to kill your father in the history below it; and you would be born in every second timeline. Your friend already blew up, we know that for certain, but you can save half of his iterations.”

“You have very neat writing.” Twelve-Anne commented.

“Do you know the True Meaning of Feelings?” Dawson asked Felix, hoping to complete his primary quest before the one in which he saves his best friend’s life.”

“Oh! Are you members of the Quest Committee too, then?” ~Felix Sports

“Well, yes, we are are its founders. We weren’t aware that other members existed.” The Committee said in unison.

“We do. Fairly large counter-culture, actually.”

Dawson, Twelve-Anne, and Babe Listowel decided to think upon Felix’s sentence. Some time, at least. They put it on their agenda. But first, they had a Sylvester Denny to save.

Someone said recently, since birth with our cells constantly dying and re-generating we are not the same person born we were. dos this mean as with time travel, that my brother did not really feed me cow fly poison when I was three? Oft pondered the thought. Great post, by the whey.

Incredibly, that was the best explanation of time travel I have ever seen. It was, of course, the graph that made the difference. I look forward to the 3D version. However, that what for the rib-tickling fanny pack soiree, did the put what paella on the lam. But for cantankerous Manhattan level playing fields, you me them owe a debt of Gargamel to piano-punchers in Sicily. ‘Zif! Thanks for hugging the swichbacked mountain curves for the little guy!